


The Orbit of a Soul

by Calais_Reno



Series: Fin de Siècle [10]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Heavy Angst, Loneliness, M/M, POV John Watson, Pining, Post-Reichenbach, Prison, Punishment, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:49:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22172086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: After Reichenbach, Moran begins a campaign to ruin Watson, who is finally tried for gross indecency and sentenced to two years of hard labour. He emerges from prison a changed man, in a changed England, but finds that some people have not forgotten him.This is part of a Victorian AU. Each part can be read separately, but the overall story arc will make more sense of read in order.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Fin de Siècle [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551937
Comments: 8
Kudos: 56





	The Orbit of a Soul

**Author's Note:**

> “The final mystery is oneself. When one has weighed the sun in the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped out the seven heavens star by star, there still remains oneself. Who can calculate the orbit of his own soul?” — Oscar Wilde, De Profundis

When I walked out through the gates of Pentonville Prison after seven hundred and sixty-seven days within those walls, I understood that my real punishment had just begun.

I was no longer Prisoner No. 693, I was John Watson once more. But I was not the John Watson who had proudly stood in court, proclaiming himself guilty, who had walked into prison ready to give up his freedom and endure whatever that meant— all in the name of a love that was unspeakable. I had felt a hundred eyes on me as I stood in the dock, listening to my sentence: two years of hard labour. Some thought I was getting off lightly.

But I also knew that I had a few supporters who were watching to see if the publicity over my case might change anything. Lestrade was a friend, though his own troubles had unfolded rather quickly after the failed raid. Every case he’d worked with Holmes’ help came under scrutiny, as well as his judgment in allowing an amateur (Holmes would have hated that) to consult with Scotland Yard.I did not blame him for keeping quiet. I had warned him not to defend me or Holmes. In exchange for admitting he had used poor judgment, he was allowed to retire without honours.

When the gates clanged shut behind me, I was not sure where to go. Prison had taught me many things, all hard lessons. I was a different man; the person who’d lived my former life was a mystery to me.

The first lesson I learned in prison was that however much idealism a man has, it is not enough to sustain hope. There is no dignity in prison.

On arrival, I surrendered my personal property, which consisted only of a comb, a toothbrush, and the clothing I was wearing. My cane, too, I was required to hand over. My dearest material possessions, the ring Holmes had given me on our first Christmas together, his silver cigarette case, a small photo of the two of us, and my brother’s watch, I had sent to Mary, along with my wedding ring and a note, begging her to keep them for me. I had burned my diaries and unpublished stories even before charges were filed, as well as every letter or note Holmes had ever written to me. Inside the cigarette case I had kept his final note, the only sample of his handwriting that I possessed. My barrister had been paid by Mycroft; he warned me that everything else that I had ever owned would be taken to pay the costs of my trial and imprisonment.

Naked, I was driven into a filthy shower area, where I was doused with freezing water and allowed to dry myself with the same towel used by all the other prisoners.

I was then weighed, measured, and inspected by a doctor, who deemed me strong enough for physical labour. My hair was haphazardly cut off with scissors, as close to the scalp as possible, the goal being to inspect for lice. (I had shaved off my moustache soon after returning to London and had not regrown it.) Finally, I was given a uniform, a pair of heavy grey-striped trousers and a matching jacket, and told to dress myself. A tag was hung on my jacket bearing my new name: No. 693.

It is one thing to know that one will be stripped of one’s dignity; it is quite another to go through the process. By the time I had sat through a recitation of rules, I felt emotionally flayed. It was almost a relief to be put in a narrow space and hear the door clang shut.

Iron frame bed, thin mattress, hard pillow, single blanket. A bucket for waste, which each man slopped out every morning. That was my new home.

We worked in silence, ate in silence, and returned to our cells without talking to another soul. The labour was hard but pointless. Our efforts might have had more value if we were somehow contributing to society or the economy or our own reformation, but what we were forced to do— climbing the treadmill or picking oakum— had no value. Machines work faster and more efficiently, and do not require rest. Our work was punishment, pure and simple, and served only to wear us down.

Other inmates wore the same look that I felt— weary, degraded, hopeless. Our eyes did not meet often, but when they did, I sensed a grim camaraderie. It did not matter where we had individually come from, who our family was, what we had done to end up here. We bore it all silently. We were not ourselves; we were the nuts and bolts of a great machine that slowly ground our lives.

The entire philosophy behind this treatment is repentance: men who are forced to contemplate their sins will eventually turn from sin and embrace a life of decency and virtue.

I did not repent.

I had known anger before. Working with Holmes, I had seen the imperfections of the justice system, how it sometimes let the guilty go free. I despised criminals who threatened others or took lives. I had seen harsh punishments given for offences that already carried their own punishment. Here, all were equal, though. Judgment had made us the same.

Though my case had drawn a lot of attention, I knew that there were others here who had been convicted under the same law, the Labouchere Amendment. As I walked in a line with the other inmates, I wondered who my fellows were, and whether they felt unjustly punished as I did.

Anger was all I had left. My fellow prisoners might have been angry as well, but I did not know it.

One day, as I walked in a line to the showers for our weekly ablutions, a man struck me. He was quickly restrained by the guards, but not before he had delivered several hard blows to my side. I had not expected it, and might have reflexively struck out at him, but I felt my ribs crack and collapsed in a heap on the floor. He hissed one word at me: _Holmes._

Guards fear fights between inmates, which can quickly become riots, and harshly punish those involved. It did not matter that I had not instigated or participated; I was thrown in solitary confinement.

I remembered that face, but not his name. Some years earlier, Holmes had uncovered the evidence that sent him to prison for attempted murder. He was serving a life sentence, I seemed to recall. Unlike me, he had found a target for his anger.

As I lay in the darkness, aching, I assessed my injuries: bruises would heal, but I had at least two broken ribs which threatened to puncture internal organs. I asked the guard who shoved food through the slot to see a doctor, but was ignored. Three days later I was released from solitary and returned to my cell. By that time I had the beginnings of pneumonia and was too weak to work. I was finally given care when I collapsed in my cell, unable to stand even to take a piss in the slop bucket.

My days in the infirmary were the best I had at Pentonville. The doctor who tended me was an elderly man, open-minded and kind. In those days I had my first conversations in over a year. He knew of my work with Holmes and had read my stories with interest. He offered me the best advice I received in prison.

“Be patient,” he told me. “You’re angry, with cause. But in your stories you have spent quantities of ink on the topic of revenge, Doctor, enough to know the terrible things it can bring about. Justice is not one of them.”

“I suppose it’s too late for justice,” I said.

“You’re young,” he said. This was not strictly true, but from his perspective, I suppose I was. “There is a time for all things, and all things change over time. Stone turns to sand, and what seems to be written in stone is soon erased. You will see.”

He was not a particularly religious man, but he was something of a poet. I think Holmes would have liked him.

I recovered, and though days were added to my sentence to make up for the days I could not work, I faced them with less anger. When I left prison, it was without bitterness.

Loneliness I also learned. I had already grieved Holmes for over four years when I went inside, but in some way he had been with me all that time. The utter isolation I felt in prison wore me down, dulling my imagination. Sometimes I tried to imagine him, to remember his face, his voice, his hands— but my exhausted mind made these things seem vague and abstract. This was worse than remembering.

I had not thought two years would be such a long time. Four years since my world ended, I thought when I stood trial. What could two more years be to me? Without Holmes, it did not matter if I spent them in prison or a palace.

I was wrong. Two years of isolation, silence, despair felt like twenty. My former life seemed like a dream I’d had while climbing the endless treadmill. I began to feel that I would die in prison. Just when I had accepted this, I was called to the warden’s office and informed that my time was done.

There was no life for me to resume when I got out. People I had once considered friends would not be glad to see me. I was an embarrassment to them, an unrepentant sodomite, unwelcome even in church. I had been stripped of my medical license, the commendations I had won in the army were revoked, my family gone. I was wearing someone else’s clothing and had fourteen shillings in my pocket.

I stood on the pavement outside the Prison, the cold seeping through the thin soles of my shoes, holding my only possession, a Bible someone had sent me during my first year inside. I was not so very far from Baker Street. In under an hour, I could have walked the distance and stood at the familiar door. Mrs Hudson might still be there. But that was the last place I thought to go. I imagined new tenants in the rooms that had been ours, all the clutter of chemistry equipment and books gone, the familiar, ugly wallpaper stripped off or covered over with something brighter, the eclectic mix of chairs and sofa Holmes and I had lounged on all replaced. All our memories painted over.

There was much to think about, many problems to solve, but the foremost was where I might sleep that night. It was December, a few days before Christmas. I might find a church to put me up for the night, I thought. Forgiveness was part of their doctrine, after all, and though I had not achieved penitence, I had acquired humility. I was not too proud to beg.

The world felt huge, and cold, and dangerous. Even my worst days in prison, I had been sheltered. From the prison yard, I’d sometimes had glimpses of the sky, which reminded me that I was still living in the world. The stars still moved overhead, the sun rose and set, and the moon still made its serene journey across the night sky, waxing and waning.

Whatever cold comfort it had given me, the certainty of the narrow prison corridors and my tiny cell were now gone. I was a speck of matter in a vast, uncaring universe. The dirty sky spun above me, and I could almost feel the rotation of the earth beneath my feet.

I grabbed at a lamp post, trying to keep my balance.

“Doctor Watson!”

It had been so long since I had been addressed by that name, I did not immediately respond. Someone was approaching me. Instinctively, I kept my head lowered.

“Doctor,” a kind voice said. “I’ve come to fetch you.”

Hands engulfed mine, and I began to raise my eyes to see who it was. A familiar face, but I could not put a name to it.

The man smiled and gently took my arm, steadying me. Taller than I remembered, but the swagger was there, the eyes twinkling fondly. “It’sSimon, sir. Simon Thomas. Mr Holmes used to have me run errands when I was a tyke.”

“Simon.” My voice, long disused, sounded hoarse. “Simon Thomas.”

“I heard you were getting out today, sir. Will you come with me? I’d like to take you home.”

“Home?” I felt the coins in my pocket. “I have money.”

“No, sir. I won’t be taking any money. You and Mr Holmes once gave me a chance, and I’m just returning the favour. You’ll stay with us, and I’ll not take _no_ for an answer.”

He trundled me into a cab then, and off we went. _Cabs cost money_ , I remembered, and groped in my pocket once more.

Simon patted my hand. “Now, sir, have no worries. It’s Wiggins driving this cab, and there’s no fee. You remember Wiggins?”

“Billy,” I said, calling to mind a freckled face and ginger hair. Holmes used to pull pennies out of his ear, a trick guaranteed to make him laugh.

“We live off of Old Street, Clerkenwell now, ‘twixt the Saints— Paul and Luke,” he said. “Just Mother, my brother Solomon and me. You might remember my sister Annie. She’s married now, with a little one. Lives in Camden.”

“I don’t want to be an inconvenience,” I said.

“You could never be that, Doc,” he said. “What you’ve been through— well, you just take your time and get yourself settled. Let us take care of you.”

I watched the streets we passed, trying to get my bearings, feeling as if I were awash in a great ocean, gasping for breath while wave after wave threatened to submerge me. When the cab finally pulled up in front of building, I felt almost ill. Simon helped me down and led me to the door. As we stepped over the threshold of their flat, Mrs Thomas took my hand, welcoming me, then pulled me into a hug. It was a small space, and I instantly felt less distressed. I was seated in front of the fire, a cup of tea placed in my hand and a slice of cake set before me.

Simon seemed to understand my muteness. I imagined he’d known other men who’d spent time in prison, and recognised the confusion accompanying the first taste of freedom. He filled the silence with this and that, but did not tax my ears.

“I started as a telegraph boy, you’ll remember,” he said. “Now I’m working as a clerk in a law office. You might know my boss.” He grinned. “Or at least you know his father. Joseph Lestrade is his name.”

I remembered Joe years ago, a polite boy who stated his intention of becoming a policeman like his father, our friend. Lestrade had told him he could do better, become a man who represented people before the law, or even made laws, rather than simply enforcing it against them.

Mrs Thomas put food in front of me from time to time, not overwhelming me with a big plate, but offering sandwiches, a cup of soup, and other small bites. “I’m going to feed you up, Doctor,” she said. “We’ll have you looking like yourself again soon.”

One might think a mirror was a minor necessity to a prisoner, if only to confirm their continuing existence, but Pentonville did not provide mirrors, since they could be broken and used as weapons. For two years I had not seen my own face, and her remark made me wonder how bad I looked. I’d been a robust man, once, considered handsome, though inclined towards stoutness if I wasn’t careful. Holmes had often commented that he could set a clock by my stomach, which observed breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner and sometimes supper.

In prison I’d been fed a measured diet of gruel, bread, and potatoes, varied sometimes with suet pudding. It kept us alive and enabled us to do the hard labour expected of us, but it left one feeling malnourished somehow.

I sat quietly, watching Mrs Thomas work on the mending. She’d given Simon and his little brother a list, and they’d gone out to fulfil it. It felt strange to be in such a setting, a sitting room like any other— soft chairs, doily-topped tables, lamps by which to read or do handwork. Thinking of our old sitting room on Baker Street, I dozed a bit, waking when the door opened and the shoppers returned, merry and red-cheeked, with their arms full of provisions.

“We got you a present, Doc,” said Solomon. In his hand he held a cane, well-used but solid.

“I noticed your limp,” Simon said gently. “Your old war wound.” He did not mention that he’d rarely seen me use it during my years with Holmes. The exercise of the treadmill had strengthened my muscles, but my joints had suffered and I was in some pain. I was grateful that he had noticed.

Before long, I began to feel tired. Seeing my slow blinks and nodding head, Simon led me to a room behind, where I was to sleep. It was not yet evening, but I felt as if I could sleep for years.

And so, I learned that kindness still existed in the world.

The following day I awoke late. At first my heart pounded, thinking I’d missed roll call and breakfast, but then I realised where I was and rose, apologising for my laziness. Pampering me, however, seemedto be the order of the day. Simon had to go to work, so young Solomon was put in charge of me, and brought me a basin of warm water so that I might make my ablutions. I was sharing a room with him and his brother, who were sleeping in one bed, leaving the other for me.

Solomon set the basin on the washstand and brought me a clean towel. “You can call me Tommy, Dr Watson. I don’t feel much like a Solomon, though that’s my Christian name. It’s a solemn name, don’t you think?” He grinned, looking about as solemn as a mischievous monkey.

“Solomon was a king in Israel,” I said. “He had seven hundred wives.”

“That’s too many,” said the boy. “They’d get in each other’s way, and fight all the time. Simon had two girlfriends once, and they about scratched each other’s eyes out when they found out about one another.” He shook his head. “But if they all took in laundry and mending, a fellow might make a tidy bit of change on the side.”

That made me smile, something I hadn’t done in a long time.

I saw myself in the mirror at last, and the face that looked back made me wince. My hair had gone almost completely grey, and my face had lost any roundness it might have had. My hair, too short and unevenly cut, reminded me of that day long ago, when I rose from my sick bed after returning to London and took a pair of scissors to my hair. Mary had remarked that I looked like a scarecrow. Seeing this harrowed version of myself, I wondered if I should regrow my moustache, if it might make me look more like myself. That John Watson was gone, though, and this new one did not want to be reminded of who he’d been.

Once I’d eaten some eggs and toast, Mrs Thomas urged me to take a walk. “It’ll be good for you, Doctor, to get some fresh air. Solomon will go with you.”

I grabbed my cane and followed the boy into the street. The neighbourhood was poor, but not abjectly so. I’d lived in places like this growing up, blocks of flats filled with working people. Each house has six or eight flats, each flat having a sitting room, kitchen, bath, and two or three bedrooms. The fact that they did not share a common loo meant that these were not the lowest of the poor.

“I’m goin’ t’ get a job,” Tommy said. “When Simon was my age, he worked for Mr Holmes.”

“Indeed. He ran errands for us, and did a good job of it.”

“I don’t remember Mr Holmes. People still talk about him hereabouts, though.”

“What do they say about him?” I asked.

“He was on our side, they say, and Moran had to get him out of the way ‘cause you and he tried to bust up his gang. Round here, even the peelers don’t say nothing ‘gainst Mr Holmes. But they don’t dare say nothing ‘gainst Moran neither.”

I digested this information. Seeing Holmes ripped apart in the press, I had feared there was nobody who believed in him. It warmed me to know that the people he’d cared about were still caring for his memory.

“I’m gettin’ a job,” Tommy repeated. “Simon says the gangs all work for Moran now, and it’s not safe to get involved with that lot.”

“He’s right. You’re much too smart a boy to work for a gang.”

We sat in the park when I decided my leg needed a rest, and then headed back. By that time it was starting to snow. Tommy gave a whoop when he saw the flakes starting to accumulate.

“Do you like making a snow fort?” I asked him, remembering how the boys used to do that on Baker Street.

“That’s for little kids,” he said. “I’m a business man. If it snows enough, I can make a few shillings clearing the walkway in front of the shops.” He ran and attempted to slide on the pavement. “Though a snow battle might be good fun. I’ll see if the other boys like to.”

We returned to hot tea and biscuits. I felt like royalty.

I was beginning to think how I might resurrect myself. Staying with the Thomas family for long would not be good for them or for me. I needed a job and a place of my own, even if it was a room in a boarding house. I was forty-five, a ex-convict, a man with a limp, but I had something I hadn’t expected— friends. In the neighbourhoods where Holmes and I had worked, we’d often encountered men who’d done time. These unfortunates aren’t acknowledged in polite society, where going to the wrong school or having the wrong accent could ostracise you. In the neighbourhoods where people sweated and starved, a criminal record was not held against a man. Holmes and I had known ex-forgers, ex-burglars, ex-pickpockets and merchants of stolen goods. Some of them turned out to be very useful to us, but I had wondered why he treated them all the same as if they had been law-abiding citizens.

“Prison doesn’t reform all men,” he said. “But we must acknowledge that, repentant or not, they have paid their debt and should be judged on their present actions, not their past. Any man can become a criminal, given the right circumstances. And any man might become honest, given favourable circumstances. We are a product not only of our environment, but of our circumstances, which shape character.”

I thought this was open-minded of him, considering the number of criminals who re-offended. But he never made any distinction between poor and rich law-breakers. He hated to see a rich man who did not use his privilege to help others, and had sympathy for the poor, who often saw no way to survive except by dipping below the law occasionally.

Shame I had felt when I stepped into prison, and again when I walked out. But I would not give in to my circumstances. If anything, I had learned lessons that would help me begin a small revolution of kindness.

Knowing I liked to read, Simon brought home paperbacks for my entertainment. His taste ran to adventure, mystery, and horror, as mine did. It was a pleasure once more to immerse myself in a story.

The only book I’d read in two years had been the Bible, this being the only one allowed to inmates. One had been in my cell when I arrived. A second one had arrived a few months later, posted anonymously. I suppose that people might attempt to smuggle in a weapon in the pages of a Bible, or drugs, but everything is inspected, and anything of value ends up divided among the guards and taken home. Several verses were noted on the inside cover, all of them about redemption. The sender had probably hoped to inspire me to change my ways. I wasn’t sure why I’d kept it, except that it felt like a gift. It was well-worn, as if someone had spent time reading it. Perhaps the marked passages weren’t intended for me, but something told me that they were. No one could tell me who the sender was.

A visitor came to call on me one day soon after my release, someone I had not thought of in a long time: Michael Stamford, who’d been with me at Barts so many years earlier. It was he who had introduced me to Sherlock Holmes when I returned from Afghanistan. Our lives had tended in different directions after that, and I only ran into him occasionally. It surprised me that he had taken the trouble to follow my case and seek me out now that I was free.

He was still teaching at Barts, he said. “Bright young things, like we used to be. God, how I hate them!” He chuckled.

I was slowly remastering conversation, but did not know what to say to this small talk. “It’s good to see you, Stamford,” I said.

“Have you written to Mary?” he asked. “Have you heard how she is faring?”

“I haven’t written. She made it clear that contact would be unwelcome. These unfortunate events are not something she asked for, and I must respect her wishes.”

“For better or worse,” he said. “And Rose is still your daughter.”

I had thought about Rosie daily since Mary took her away. She would be ten years old now— practically grown. I could hardly imagine the young lady she was becoming, and wondered what Mary had told her about her father.

“She will not understand,” I replied.

“One day, she may.” He smiled kindly. “I’ve something for you.” So saying, he handed me what I had thought was his own doctor’s bag, but then remembered that he would not be carrying one since he didn’t practice. “Mr Holmes— Mycroft, that is— had it rescued from your surgery after you were arrested. He asked me to keep it for you.”

It was my bag, the same one I had purchased while in medical school, using the last of my father’s fortune. A bit battered by the years, it had withstood more medical emergencies than I could count. I remembered how, when we were rushing out the door on a case, Holmes would call to me, _bring your Gladstone, Watson— and your revolver!_ The bag was a familiar friend, one I hadn’t expected to see again.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m… I’m afraid I no longer have a license to practice medicine.”

“The people in this neighbourhood do not care a whit about that,” he replied, leaning forward and smiling confidentially. “They have their teeth pulled by the barber and wounds stitched up by any woman with a needle and thread. They deliver each other’s babies and use cures they’ve inherited from their grandmothers. Scraping by with what they have, they never quite get what they need. You could do good here, Dr Watson.”

“I’m not sure I can live on good will,” I said. “I don’t want to become a charity case.”

“Never mind,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder. “You can fly under the wire for now, and no one need be the wiser. Meanwhile, I’ve got my eyes open for a job you can do, if you’re interested, and not too proud.”

I was certainly not proud. “I’ve done menial labour for two years,” I replied. “I don’t mind getting my hands dirty. Surgery is hand labour, after all.”

“So it is, Watson,” he said, smiling. “We are all servants, are we not?”

Stamford had brought other gifts as well, the elements of a feast for Simon’s family. Smells of sweet and savoury soon filled the small flat. People began drop by with greetings, many of the boys Holmes and I used to employ, now grown and working, a few former clients who had heard I was back, and finally Lestrade.

The inspector was greyer now, but his dark eyes still shone with intelligence. “I’m on my way to my son’s house for dinner. Delighted to see you, Doctor. I always knew you were stronger than an evil fate. Living well is the best revenge, they say. You and I will be the proof of that.”

That Christmas, I did not allow myself to be haunted by the ghosts of the past, but rejoiced in the present. Surrounded by the laughter and love of people whose lives had been touched by Holmes, I felt glad to receive their care. One ghost only hovered at the edge of my memory still, but I felt him smiling too. I did not know what the future would offer me, but I knew how I must greet it.

**Author's Note:**

> The term of Watson's imprisonment in this story is 17 Nov 1895 through 22 Dec 1897. 
> 
> Note on historical accuracy in this AU: This is an alternate universe that looks very much like Victorian England, but I have chosen to ignore some real events, to change others, and to use a few in the story. 
> 
> Astute readers will note that Watson's time in prison coincides closely with the imprisonment of Oscar Wilde (25 May 1895 to 18 May 1897). I have chosen not to reference Wilde in this story. His experience, though something I obviously drew on to write Watson's story, would not add anything to the plot of this story, which belongs to Holmes and Watson.


End file.
